Pretty Face
by Authoress-in-training
Summary: She was so much more than just a pretty face, and he saw that. She wants to hate him but just can't. Maybe they aren't allowed a happily ever after, but they can have one night.


"What's a pretty little thing like you doing here?"

Thirteen-year-old Glimmer Reade pulls the knife out of her practice dummy and studiously ignores the jeers and catcalls from the group of older boys behind her. Though she'd love to aim her next throw at _them_, experience has taught her that the best way to get them to go away is just to act like they're not there.

Easier said than done, however.

One of them, unusually bold, brushes his big, meaty finger across her cheek, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Someone as beautiful as you shouldn't risk damaging those perfect looks." She shivers as his fingers trail lower, down the exposed curve of her neck. "When I'm a victor, I'd pick you as my prize. You can have all the best without the dangers. Doesn't that sound nice, pretty girl?"

When you spend your days learning five different ways to kill someone with a stick, control is an inordinately fought-for state, and that last statement makes her lose what's left of hers. "And who says I won't be a victor first?" she retorts angrily, yanking away from his touch and crossing her arms defiantly over her chest, still wielding the knife.

The boy throws back his head in laughter, a big booming sound that echoes. "You? Sweetheart, don't kid yourself." He bends down to stare her in the eye, only further emphasizing his enormous stature compared to her own. "You're nothing but a pretty face; you wouldn't last ten minutes in the Arena. Do the smart thing and leave the glory-getting to those of us who can handle it."

"Luke!" comes a sharp female voice, as a very annoyed-looking trainer marches over to the group of boys. "Stop bothering this young lady and get back to work. That goes for _all_ of you, in fact," she adds, placing her hands on her hips. "If you're so bored, why don't you go do twenty laps around the track?"

As the boys shuffle off to do their laps, the female trainer looks down at Glimmer. "Us girls always have to fight a little bit harder to be taken seriously around here." She places a hand on the thirteen-year-old's shoulder. "You're easy on the eyes, that's true, but you've got real promise, honey. But you can't let them get to you. In that Arena, the only thing you can for sure count on is yourself. You have to be vicious to survive."

Only when she's gone does Glimmer look down at her hand, gripping the knife so tightly it's left a bright red impression on her palm.

She will prove that she's more than a pretty face, she vows. She _will _be a victor one day.

(That year's Games, Luke volunteers as tribute. She takes a perverse sort of pleasure watching him die a long, slow death from poisonous snake muttations.)

* * *

Glimmer Reade is a beautiful girl.

She's not vain, it's just the truth. Blond hair, green eyes, a slender figure that's curvy in all the right places… the blessings of a good gene pool, that's all. But unlike her peers, she often wishes she had been born plainer-looking. Being beautiful seems more like a curse than a gift most days. It makes her have to be that much faster, work that much harder, fight that much more to be taken seriously.

_You have to be vicious to survive._ So that's what she becomes. She hardens her heart and trains longer, harder, working her body to its limits and then over them, never satisfied with her own performance. She masters every variety of weapon in the training center, learns how to best even the fiercest of the trainers in hand-to-hand combat. The other girls quickly learn to keep their distance, and even the boys don't bother her anymore. It doesn't bother her, though, not to have any friends. _ In that Arena, the only thing you can for sure count on is yourself._

Her plan succeeds. No one dares call Glimmer Reade 'just another pretty face' anymore. She's beautiful like a poisonous snake, and just as lethal.

When she's seventeen, her name is reaped. (Though she'll never admit it, a part of her is secretly relieved to have the decision made for her.) She holds her head up high, shoulders back, eyes practically daring anyone to try and volunteer for her. The 74th Hunger Games are hers to win.

At her mentor's request, she goes along with the Capitol's stylists as they turn her into some frilly girly-girl, succumbing to the reality that a pretty face _will_ sell to sponsors, which could mean the difference between life and death. But to be certain that none of her fellow tributes get the wrong idea about her, she makes sure to give 110% in the training sessions. Right from the start, she asserts herself as a person to watch out for.

Then the alliances start to form.

Unused to having friends, she's wary at first when the fearsome pair from District 2, Cato and Clove, approach her. After a little not-so-subtle prodding from her mentor, though, she begins to see the benefit of allying herself to the others. Both are extraordinarily strong and quite ruthless, to the extent that it actually makes her a little nervous. But they're the only ones who pose a decent threat to her chances of winning, so it couldn't hurt to stay on their good side for a while.

And then there's Marvel Knox, the boy from District 1.

He's a year older than her, but she could probably take him, she thinks. Still, he's no weakling; she's watched him throw spears at the training center back home, and he's got almost ridiculously good aim. He's not bad-looking either – she remembers him at fourteen, all awkward limbs that looked like they would break at the slightest provocation, but now that he's grown up and filled out a bit, he's (dare she say it) kind of handsome. Of course, Cato recruits him as well.

Something about him sticks with her, and though at home she wouldn't have spared him a second glance, she finds herself paying attention to him in the training center, making conversation with him at meals. To her surprise, he's remarkably easy to talk to – nothing at all like Cato and Clove, for whom _everything_ seems to be about training and fighting and killing. If they weren't who they were, and _where_ they were, she'd almost call this a fledgling friendship.

It must be how he represents home, she decides. Because of course Glimmer Reade doesn't do anything as _ordinary_ as get crushes on boys, despite the multitudes that have fallen at her feet over the years.

But this really won't do. Every person going into that Arena is someone she will potentially have to kill – even Cato and Clove, although she tries not to think about that. She's lasted so many years without need for companionship; she can't suddenly start needing it now, not when it could affect her ability to finally prove herself once and for all.

Oh well. There are twenty-four of them, after all. Odds are someone else will kill him before she'd have to.

* * *

"You look absolutely stunning," her stylist proclaims. "Just like a princess."

It's hard to hate this silly, frivolous man, with his spiky green hair and flecks of gold and silver running across his face like the scales of a fish; he's just _so_ over-the-top that it's endearing. Still, Glimmer does her best to try. Just because she hails from the district that makes luxury goods for the Capitol does _not_ mean she wears this kind of stuff all the time. Most of the time, she spends her days in practice clothes, which are about as far from this clingy, sparkly, nearly transparent gold gown as you can get.

Her mentor shakes her head sadly when she steps out of the bathroom but doesn't say anything. After spending ten minutes in front of a mirror trying in vain to make this piece of fabric resemble something approaching modesty, she finally gives up, remembering the effect something like this will have on any potential sponsors. It's not enough to erase Luke's awful words from her mind: _You're nothing but a pretty face; you wouldn't last ten minutes in the Arena._

Her skin crawls just to think it, but looking at her reflection, dressed up like the Capitol's pretty little life-sized doll, she can't shake the feeling that he was right about her all those years ago. Which is decidedly _not_ the attitude she needs going into Interview Night.

"Hey." Her first instinct when she feels a light pressure on her elbow is to drive it back against her attacker's throat and pin them to the wall, but then she wills herself out of attack mode and forces herself to relax, turning around to look into Marvel's eyes. They're blue, she notes with casual interest; a very nice blue, in fact. "I was going to wish you luck, but somehow I don't think you'll need it… not dressed like that."

"Um, thank you?" She curses herself for sounding unsure; Glimmer Reade is never unsure of anything she does. "You look nice too," she adds, trying to regain a modicum of composure. And he really does – although that's probably not something she should be noticing.

"Thanks." He shuffles his feet awkwardly. They're alone, she notes, which is an incredibly rare thing; she doesn't think she's been alone all week, except for when she's asleep. But she's not alone now, is she? Not with Marvel there. "You nervous?"

A snort of laughter escapes her lips before she can keep it down. "Of course," she says without thinking. "I mean… look at me! Look at what I'm wearing! Cashmere keeps saying I'm supposed to be 'sexy', that there's no way they could sell me as anything else, but that's just so… _not me_, you know?" She has to clamp her teeth down on her tongue to keep from saying more, because _whoa_, where did that come from? Why is she spilling personal information to someone who could very well have to kill her?

"You'd never know it," he says quickly, then turns beet red. A whisper of a smirk crosses her lips unbidden; she's always more comfortable when she has more of the power. He still seems flustered as he rushes to add, "It doesn't really matter what you feel. None of this is really _us_ – well, except maybe Cato and Clove." The sideways look he gives her seems to suggest he has his own opinions of their District 2 allies. "This whole thing is just like one big puppet show. You just have to give them what they want. And Cashmere's right, you know. No one's going to buy that you're this focused, violent killing machine, even if it's true. Not when you look like that."

At this, she finally snaps. "So I'm just supposed to let them think I'm a brainless airhead?"

"I never said that." It hits her that this is the most she's ever heard him say at one time. All this time, she just assumed he was the strong but silent type, content to sit back and let Cato do the talking. Maybe all along it was only that he never had anything important to say. "Use it to your advantage. Play that part for them. Show them what they want to see. And then when you get into the Arena, don't hold anything back. They'll already love you, and then they'll realize you've got a great chance of winning this thing on your own merit. Your sponsorship will soar through the roof."

"Why are you helping me?" she challenges impulsively, because it's never been in her nature to look before she leaps. She just trusts that she'll be able to land safely no matter what – and she always has.

But the look in his eyes – those deep, fathomless blue eyes – is enough to make her feel like she's drowning, with no land under her feet for miles. "District pride," he offers finally. "If it's not me, I'd rather it be you than anyone else."

She opens her mouth, but then the door opens and a Capitol underling – this one with long white curly hair and purple skin inlaid with tiny diamond chips around her forehead and eyes – pokes her head in. "There you two are!" she exclaims, in a high-pitched voice like the chime of bells. "Glimmer and Marvel from District 1? We've been looking everywhere for you! Come with me, the interviews are about to start!"

There's no time to try and squeeze more answers out of Marvel, because as soon as they reach their destination – a long, utterly nondescript hallway behind the City Circle stage, the other tributes (some slouching boredly against the wall, some looking like they're about to be sick) behind them in a giant line – she's being pulled through a door and out onto a stage that she's been seeing every year since she was old enough to remember watching the Games. There's the familiar face of Caesar Flickerman, in that same lightbulb-dotted suit, the skin of his face scarily taut and powdered and his hair a garish blue this year. But what watching the Games on TV didn't prepare her for is the sheer volume of Capitol citizens packed into the stands, cheering and screaming. To them, this is all good fun – watching twenty four children get prettied up and then sent off to their deaths.

_This whole thing is just like one big puppet show. You just have to give them what they want._

That night, she learns that she's a natural flirt – pursing her lips and looking at Caesar through lowered lids, angling herself sexily towards the audience, smiling coyly like she has a secret she won't dare divulge. It's easier than she'd imagined to allow the part of herself that she's spent years repressing slide to the surface, and when she leaves the stage, she thinks she's made a good impression. (Her mentors, stylists, and escort echo this when she gets back into their clutches.)

After her own interview, the rest of the night passes in a blur. She's forced to watch the rest with active disinterest, only stopping to roll her eyes when the boy from District 12 professes his love for the girl he came with. _Idiot,_ she thinks, slapping a target on his back in her head. Doesn't he know that love makes you weak, and that the Arena leaves absolutely no room for weakness? The 'star-crossed lovers' bit might pull on the heartstrings of the silly Capitol citizens, but she's spent years studying people in her self-instituted isolation, and while he might be for real, she certainly doesn't reciprocate. What a fool, then, trying to garner sympathy to save his sorry behind.

Yes, Lover Boy will be her first blood. Just thinking about his death sends thrills of anticipation down her spine.

* * *

"Make sure you get a good night's sleep, now," Cashmere says to her as they exit the elevator that leads into their private quarters. Gloss nods his head as he, Marvel, and Katrinka (their escort) bring up the rear. "I know you lot always think you're invincible, but even a sword or knife won't protect you if your reflexes aren't working at maximum speed. And don't forget to drink lots of water; dehydration's killed more tributes than I can count."

Glimmer half-listens to her mentor's sage words of advice, too full of pent-up nervous energy. The interview was the final stepping stone, and now… they're ready.

Hours pass as she lies in bed, unable to fall asleep, tossing and turning until she's hopelessly tangled in the silk sheets. Even indulging in a rather vivid fantasy of ripping Lover Boy's heart out of his chest doesn't send her off to dream-land, and that always works.

Finally, she gets up and traces the path to the dining room, deciding that if she can't sleep, she might as well heed Cashmere's other advice. The gleaming silver machine lights up when she sticks her glass underneath it, a steady stream of cold water pouring out; when the water level reaches a certain amount, the machine shuts itself off automatically, taking the small light with it.

Her feet move soundlessly through the dark and over the plush rugs, taking her to the window seat in the 'living room' where she curls up against the side of the glass, sipping at her drink. Since they're District 1, their apartment is on the first floor, making the window barely above ground level (which she thought was kind of unfair; shouldn't _they_ get the penthouse, instead of those losers from District 12?). Still, they're high up enough to see the colorful lights flashing in the streets of the Capitol outside – all the parties raging on into the wee hours of the morning, celebrating the start of another Games. In the silence of the night, she can almost hear the music and laughter; to them, this is a joyous occasion, worth losing sleep over to spend the night dancing and laughing.

"Thought I'd find you here." Marvel's voice yanks her back from her thoughts, and she looks up to see the darkness of his silhouette in the dim light. He moves closer, taking a seat on the other end of the bench; she tucks her legs into her chest to give him more space. "Couldn't sleep either?"

She nods. "It's illogical, really. I've spent what feels like my entire life training for this, and yet now that I'm actually here…"

"It feels nothing like you though it would." She nods again, feeling unable to put it into words herself.

For the first time, it occurs to her that he was a volunteer. There's nothing inherently unusual about that – most District 1 and 2 tributes are – but though he's fast and strong, but nothing about him screams "I will annihilate anyone in my way because I feel like it" the way that, say, Cato does. And because of sheer numbers, not everyone who trains ends up going to the Games. _So what were his reasons?_ she wonders.

If there's one thing Glimmer likes to pride herself on besides her fighting skills, it's her ability to read people. But infuriatingly, no matter how much she learns about him, Marvel Knox remains an enigma to her.

"Can I have some of that?" Wordlessly, she hands over her water glass, her breath catching in her throat as their fingertips brush for the briefest moment. She forces herself to hold his gaze through the darkness, cool and collected, as he slowly raises the glass to his lips and takes a long drink.

"Sorry," he says finally, holding the now-empty glass up to the window, the only source of light in the room. "Guess I was more thirsty than I thought." His voice is barely above a whisper, and yet in the absolute silence of their apartment, it sounds like a megaphone.

"It's alright."

There's a tiny bit of a windowsill between the glass and the bench they're occupying, and as he moves to put the empty cup down, she's suddenly aware of his closeness in a way that she hasn't ever been before. Her heart beats faster for no good reason, as the lights outside are suddenly doused completely.

A large part of her training was devoted to learning how to notice everything, but she doesn't quite know which one of them makes that final, definitive move and removes the space between them completely. All she knows is the brief moment where his lips brush against her own, feather-light but soft and firm, and such unimaginable warmth that spreads through her entire body like a rush of molten lava. Her head is swimming and her ears are ringing and she can feel the walls she's spent years building around herself come crashing down around her, the sound defeaning in this silence…

Except it's not the sound of bricks falling she hears, but the booming echo of fireworks outside.

Startled back into reality, she sucks in a shallow gasp of air and abruptly yanks her head backwards, banging it painfully against the side of the wall. She winces, biting her tongue until she tastes blood to keep from crying out in pain (she's endured much worse than this, after all). Shards of what used to be the water glass are cutting into her hand; if this affects her ability to wield a sword tomorrow, there is going to be hell to pay.

She takes much longer than is strictly necessary, focusing intently on picking the bits of glass out of her hand. Her skin prickles and burns under the intensity of his stare, which she can still feel even though she's studiously ignoring him.

If there's one thing Glimmer hates more than anything, it's being unprepared. She can kill a man with six different kinds of weapons as well as her bare hands, but none of her training has ever taught her how to deal with a situation like this.

So she evades and defends herself as best as she can, because that's all she can do.

Eventually, he seems to take the hint, getting up with a parting, "See you in the Arena." There's a small pang in her heart at the icy edge to his voice, as she presses her forehead against the window again, the cool glass in relief to her suddenly heated skin.

Outside, the sky is exploding in bursts of color and light, but she remembers all too clearly that profound darkness, how easy it was to pretend for a moment that she was just a girl and he was just a boy, that nothing about them together was wrong or forbidden in any way. Something flutters in her stomach at the memory, and as much as she'd like to put it down to pre-Games-related nerves, she's not quite able to fool herself into believing that that's all it is.

Any other girl would've been jumping for joy over her first kiss, but all she can think about is that sometime within the next week, he will have to die if she wants to live. And she wants to hate him for making her vulnerable like this, knowing she'll never have the strength to make his cannon fire.

So instead, she sits and watches the people partying in the streets as they slowly trickle home, wondering at what point everything in her life got so much more complicated than it was supposed to be.

* * *

When the branch cracks, it's not even a split second before her eyes are open and she's alert, one hand instinctively reaching back to grab an arrow from the quiver to arm the bow she slept with for protection's sake. If Katniss Everdeen is stupid enough to make a bid for freedom, she's about to find out exactly how wrong she was to try to outsmart the Alliance.

"That's not exactly necessary, is it?" His voice is gently mocking, and she narrows her eyes to find its source, not about to let the flippancy of his remark go unanswered for. It takes her a moment but then she spots the pair of blue eyes, luminous in the darkness, only a few feet away. She squints as her eyes adjust to the light, seeing him leaning casually against the base of the tree fiddling almost absently with one of his spears, his eyes trained directly on her.

Her cheeks flush at the memory of the last time those eyes were staring at her in the darkness, and she keeps the bow exactly where it is, staring down at him over the arrow shaft that's aimed right between his eyes. "Did you forget where we are?" she answers in the same lightly sarcastic tone, always careful to keep her voice low so as not to wake the others. "This is the Hunger Games. The second you let your guard down is the second the Gamemakers ready your cannon."

"I know the way the game works, Glimmer," he says, suddenly serious. "But if you think I'd kill you while you're sleeping then you've got the wrong guy."

Her grip on the bow falters.

The sky is starting to lighten slightly, indicating that it's not quite as late as she'd assumed, but still early enough in the morning that the majority of Capitol citizens are asleep. This might be one of the rare times in the Arena when she won't have to worry about what she says and does being broadcast to all of Panem, but she still hesitates to ask him, "Why?"

There's so much left unsaid in that single solitary word, but he's a child of District 1 as much as she is, and he meets her gaze again she knows he's heard what she won't dare say aloud, even with the threat of the cameras semi-neutralized: _Why are you doing this? Why me?_

"Would you believe that I've had a crush on you since I was five?"

A snort of laughter escapes her lips before she can stop it, and when she clasps her hand over her mouth she can see him grinning. "No way."

"Then congratulations, you're a good lie detector."

She narrows her eyes at him. "_What_ about this situation makes you think it's alright to joke around?"

"We all have our ways of staying sane." The playfulness is gone from his voice and his eyes.

There's nothing of the confident-to-the-point-of-arrogance young man the Capitol saw in the boy sitting across from her, and for the first time she considers that maybe she wasn't the only one playing a part on Interview Night. Another piece of the ever-expanding puzzle slides into place, once again leaving her with more questions than answers.

However, before either of them can say anything, there's a crunch of leaves and both heads whip in the direction of the sound lightning-fast, hands reaching for weapons as second-nature instinct. It's only Clove rolling over in her sleep, but the sight of their tiny-yet-lethal ally clutching one of her favored knives like a teddy bear is enough to remind Glimmer where they are, and why this conversation should not be happening.

"_We_ should be sleeping," she says definitively, returning the arrow to the quiver and carefully lowering herself back to the leaf-covered ground, once again cursing their lack of sleeping bags.

"Come here," he beckons, motioning with his arm.

She stares incredulously. "Are you _crazy_?"

"You're cold," he says in lieu of an answer, and there's something about the earnest look in his eyes that makes it impossible for her to look away. A shiver races through her that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the thought of what he's suggesting.

"I… I can't." Those two words are more than a copout, but Glimmer Reade doesn't show emotion to anyone. She's already broken enough of her personal rules for this boy; she'll be damned if she lets him turn her into something she's not.

His eyes flicker, as if he can read her thoughts. "I'm not asking for a lot, Glimmer. I haven't forgotten where we are, and why we're here. And if you want to pretend this never happened when we wake up again, I can live with that. But I know there's a part of you that wants this too, or we wouldn't still be having this conversation." His voice drops down so she can barely hear him as he adds in a low whisper, "This is one thing they can't take away from us if we don't let them."

Her heart skips a beat, and she pretends it's at his borderline-treasonous argument even when every fiber of her being knows the truth. It's getting harder and harder to remember why allowing herself to fall for this boy is the stupidest thing she could ever do. _The Hunger Games has only one winner. There's no room for star-crossed romances; that's only setting both of us up for certain death. Just look at Lover Boy and his good-as-dead girlfriend in the tree._

But all of that falls away when she thinks about the way he looks at her, like she's just as beautiful now – with her golden hair full of dust and leaves and ash from the fire, blood and dirt under her fingernails – as she was on Interview Night in her sparkling Capitol dress. He sees the real person underneath the mask she wears for the rest of Panem, and she can't bring herself to hate him for it. In fact, she starts to find herself agreeing with him.

They might not be allowed a happily ever after, but they can have one night.

If her mentor could see her now – and there is definitely a chance that Cashmere is watching them – there would probably be some very choice and decidedly unladylike words thrown around, but as Marvel pulls her head down to use his arm as a pillow, she decides she doesn't care anymore.

"Aren't you supposed to be on watch?" she asks, looking up just as he rests his other arm protectively over her.

"Oh, forget it. The Girl on Fire's not going anywhere." She shrugs, closing her eyes and relaxing into the warmth of his body.

Lulled into a state of security, it doesn't take long for her to fall asleep. She dreams of a world where things are different; where this night isn't a singular event, separate from everything else that's real, but every night.

And for a while, in her dreams, she can almost start to believe that that is the world they live in.

* * *

But like all good things, it eventually must end, and reality comes crashing in the next morning – literally.

The pain registers before she's even fully awake; like a thousand red-hot knives are stabbing her body at every point. _Tracker jackers_. She's on her feet as soon as she can stand, desperately running after her allies in the direction of the lake, but when she has the misfortune of tripping over a tree root, Glimmer just knows – there's no escaping this. Not for her.

She did this. Katniss. It could only have been her, and the hatred she feels for the Girl on Fire ignites in her veins, searing her skin with its intensity. (Or maybe that's just the result of the poison coursing through her blood, bending and twisting the world in front of her eyes until she can't even trust her own vision.) Her body is no longer her own, legs and arms jerking and flailing like she's some grotesque puppet and someone else is pulling the strings. It _hurts so bad_ and she can't even find her voice to scream, to let someone know that she's still here, still fighting, heart still beating…

_Marvel_. Even as her head is pounding and blood is bubbling up in her throat, her thoughts still turn to him, and whether he is okay. She fervently hopes that he is, that he somehow escaped her fate despite being in almost the same position as her. Somehow the inevitability of her own rapidly impending death is bearable when she thinks of him; still whole, still fighting. Still alive.

_If it's not me, I'd rather it be you than anyone else._

_ Win the Games, Marvel. I know you can. Do it for me. And whatever you do, make Katniss Everdeen pay._

* * *

**Author's Note: I've been a major HG fan for a long time, but it wasn't until I saw the movie that I ever dared to try my hand at playing with the incredible characters Suzanne Collins created. I am way too in love with Leven Rambin (the actress that played Glimmer), though, and the seemingly tiny detail of her sleeping on some guy's arm when Katniss drops the tracker jackers is what inspired this story. Of course, in the movie the guy was Cato not Marvel (a fact I recently verified, during a second viewing) but by that point I had already written more than half of this and honestly, Glimmer/Cato? Just makes no sense to me. :P**

**So what did you all think? Please, any feedback - positive or negative - is much appreciated. I'm sooooo nervous that I basically butchered these characters, so if you think I didn't (or even if you think I did - as long as you're willing to be nice about it), please please please drop me a line or two.**

**Catch you on the flip side!**

**- Authoress**


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